Oneiros goes ahead; beth. (for Craig Thompson)

Trimmer, trimmer, trimmer. That’s all she could think of. And prunes. The lovely, more purple than anything else in the whole world, with its sour aftertaste, prunes from her grandmother’s orchard. Not much else to occupy her mind with. One-sided. Padded square room. Picabia wrote that heads are round so we can change our minds, our thoughts, new directions. Not Patty: trimmer and prunes. Not much time left for anything else, anyway. The sun will come up one last time and she’ll be gone forever. From the orchards. And from Earth. Maybe even from Life itself.